“You live under suspicion, you ignorant fool,” B’Etor said.
“Of being a Cardassian spy.” Garak smiled. “I rather like that. It gives me an air of mystery.”
“This is unbelievable,” Lursa said. “Only an idiot would say no to such a foolproof plan.”
Garak rocked on the balls of his feet. “No plan is foolproof, ladies. I am familiar with this trick. Others may be as well.”
“Do you plan to turn us in?” B’Etor asked.
“To whom? Quark? He’s a Ferengi. He has probably figured out a way to cheat all on his own. No, I will not turn you in. Nor will I be your victim. In exchange for my silence I would like your word that you will warn me when I am at a table where one of your decks is in play.” He gathered the cards on his desk.
Lursa scooped the cards from his grasp, and they disappeared in a quick slight of hand that impressed Garak.
Both women stalked for the door.
“I need your word,” Garak said.
Lursa stopped and turned to Garak. “You are as stupid as a Romulan peasant.”
Garak only smiled. “Your word.”
“You will be alerted,” B’Etor said.
Garak bowed slightly to the two women. “Good luck to you, ladies.”
The automatic doors slid open, and the women walked out of them without looking back. Garak picked up his CLOSED sign and hung it carefully. He couldn’t tell them the most important thing. They wouldn’t understand. People who gambled for money were fools. Garak would pay his gold-pressed latinum—and lose all one hundred bars if he had to—to play against those of his own caliber.
The game itself was all that mattered.
CHAPTER 11
BASHIER LEANED AGAINST the wall by the door to Quark’s back room and watched the activity. He wore a black tuxedo with tails. The coat fit snugly across his chest and the pants added length to his legs. He had bought the tuxedo during his last year at the Academy, when several students had planned a gambling trip to Risa. The trip had never happened and Bashir had longed for an opportunity to wear proper, elegant gambling attire.
He finally had the chance. All he needed was a beautiful woman on his arm and the image he wanted to present—the suave, romantic rake—would be complete.
Only no one was looking at him. The conversation was at a low roar, making individuals hard to hear. Quark was having a quick last word with his dealers, gesturing and pointing with more nervous energy than usual. The Meepod, still bruised from her encounter the night before, limped into the room. She smelled faintly of rotted flesh, a problem with injured Meepods. He did not envy the person who sat next to her.
Nor did he envy the person who was going to sit near the Grabanster. The round, furry, orange male stood just inside the door, giving the entire area an odor of wet dog.
But the group Bashir found himself watching the most were the Romulans. He had met Darak and Kinsak briefly the night before, and had been struck at their cool response to Naralak’s death. This morning they actually laughed twice, although they kept their distance from the Klingons.
A Vulcan walked by, head bowed as if in deep meditation. Bashir did a double take. Yes, definitely a Vulcan. How odd. He had met few Vulcans during his service, but he had studied them and their anatomy quite heavily at the Academy. Vulcans did not belong in a gaming hall.
“There you are, you delicious man!” The voice was warm, throaty, and female. Bashir turned in its direction, then wished he hadn’t.
Cynthia Jones stood beside him, her pink gown made of a material so thin it revealed everything. Her perfume carried the thick scent of roses. The scent would have been lovely, if she hadn’t marinated in it. She ran her finger along his sleeve. “You disappeared on me last night,” she said.
He blushed. He had had no intention of seeing her. She had made overt passes since he met her and her tribble in the docking bay. The tribble was clutched in her left hand, like a purse. It cooed at him. “I—I had medical business.”
She wrinkled her nose. “The murder. How ugly. I don’t suppose there was anything you could do?”
Bashir shook his head. “She was dead long before I saw her. But I did have to tend the Meepod, and Sergei Davidovich—at separate times.”
Cynthia laughed. “They always fight. It’s a tradition. They hate each other. It goes back to a simple Five Card Stud game played for credits on a supply ship. The story goes that the Meepod called and Davidovich refused to show his cards.” She frowned. “Or did Sergei call and the Meepod refuse—? I forget. It doesn’t really matter. The grudge was silly, as most of those grudges are.” She tucked her arm in his. “I trust you bear no grudges.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking around the room for a way out of the conversation. Only Garak, the Cardassian, noticed. He smiled and nodded. Bashir nodded back. They had become friends of sorts since Bashir had helped Garak stop a Bajoran terrorist from dealing with two infamous Klingon women. Those women had gone into the back hall earlier.
Tensions and countertensions and so few of them had to do with the game.
“No,” Bashir said, “no grudges. Yet.”
Cynthia laughed again and pressed closer to him. “Shall we go in?”
Relief washed through Bashir. Finally, escape! “I’m afraid I can’t,” he said. “Quark won’t let me in the game.”
She put a perfectly manicured finger on his lips. The rose perfume shot up his nostrils, and he had to hold back a sneeze. “I thought you said no one held grudges against you.”
“Actually, Quark doesn’t believe I’m qualified to play.”
Cynthia sighed and took her finger away. “Silly man,” she said. “Quark doesn’t know an experienced player from a novice. All he knows is the color of gold-pressed latinum.”
Bashir smiled and slid his arm out of her grasp. “I guess I will have to speak to him,” he said. He put his hand on the small of her back and pushed her into the room. “Get your seat. I’ll see what I can do.”
She gave him a flirtatious glance over her shoulder, then floated into the room. Or at least, it looked as if she floated. The gown almost hid her tiny feet.
Bashir let out the sneeze he had been holding. The odor of dead roses clung to him. Now he would have to get his tuxedo cleaned.
The Grand Nagus of the Ferengi cackled from his chair in the center of the room. Speaking of tensions. If Bashir had to hear that laugh on a continual basis he would go crazy.
A tall, thin creature with an obsidian face and no visible eyes walked past. Bashir stared at it, trying to compare it to things he had read about in his alien anatomy seminar. But he could think of nothing. He would have to call it up on the computer when he got back to his office.
Quark climbed on one of the chairs and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. Bashir eased into the room. Quark had refused to give him a chair weeks ago, but that wouldn’t stop Bashir from watching—at least until Quark kicked him out.
After the noise had died down, Quark smiled. “The First Annual Deep Space Nine Poker Tournament has begun.”
Applause and whistles filled the room. Bashir laughed. Even with the problems on the station and the murder, the atmosphere this morning was light.
“My brother Rom will double-check your name against a list of people who have paid their entrance fee. No pay, no play. I’m sure we all will abide by that rule—that way the winner will receive great profit!”
The cheers doubled. Toward the back of the room something chirruped. The Grand Nagus’s laugh covered every sound in the room.
Then the lights flickered. The cheering stopped as if someone had stuffed a rag in each player’s mouth. Bashir leaned against the wall, feeling that shiver in his back again. When the lights went out the night before, someone had died.
Besides the other problems at the station, by now everyone knew that the Ferengi ship had been destroyed. Bashir had heard conversation in the Promenade Replimat that suggested that the station was under att
ack. It certainly was malfunctioning. He had had to shave in his office this morning because the hot water was out in his quarters. He still hadn’t had his cup of tea and it seemed that the environmental controls were down. The heat in this back room was noticeable now: when the tournament got underway, the heat would probably become unbearable.
The lights flickered a second time, but did not go out.
Quark waved his hands. Obviously, the power fluctuations made him nervous as well. “You will find your initial seating assignments posted on the wall. Your chips will be given to you at your chair after my brother checks your name against the list. Please count your chips in front of the dealer to make sure the amounts are correct.”
“Wouldn’t want you cheatin’ us on chips, now would we, Quark?” asked a bald man in the back, forming the words around his well-chewed cigar.
Bashir smiled to himself. It was just as he’d imagined: rough-and-ready players, as willing to fight as they were to gamble.
Quark sighed. “I am having you count the chips to make sure the game is aboveboard and fair. We want you to have a good time at this tournament.”
“Not to mention you want your five percent,” said the silver-haired man at the next table. He did not smile as he spoke.
“Well,” Quark said, with a huge, insincere grin, “we do need to make a profit, you know.”
“There isn’t any point in playing if you can’t make a profit.”
Bashir turned his head sharply. He recognized that dry, sarcastic voice. Odo. He stood at the door to the left of Bashir and, surprisingly, was out of uniform. When Odo saw Bashir looking at him, he nodded.
Quark saw him too and frowned. “We will be starting shortly, so please get ready. And may the best player win.”
Quark climbed off his chair as the noise level in the room rose and most everyone moved to the lists posted on the wall. Quark elbowed his way to the entrance. Rom had just stashed the last of the gold-pressed latinum bars in a side room where, Bashir was certain, they would not stay very long.
“Rom!” Quark hissed.
Rom looked up. “It’s all there, Quark.”
Bashir doubted that too, but the accurate money count was Quark’s problem. He moved closer so that he could hear their conversation.
“Any sign of Riker yet?” Quark asked.
Bashir started. Will Riker? First Officer of the starship Enterprise? He hadn’t heard that a starship was in the area.
“He’s not coming,” Rom said. “He sent a message last night, but with all the troubles they’re having in Ops, it just got relayed now.”
“Not coming!” Quark grabbed Rom’s ear. “Are you sure?”
Rom pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “I made a copy for you to look at. I thought you wouldn’t believe me.”
The smell of dry paper and mothballs overwhelmed Bashir. He turned to find the Grand Nagus standing beside him. The Nagus was quite fascinating. Bashir would have loved a chance to investigate the Nagus’s oversized ears.
“Did you say someone isn’t coming?” the Nagus demanded in his nasal voice.
Quark snatched the paper from Rom and scanned it. “Commander Riker from the Federation starship Enterprise was supposed to be a player. He sends his regrets. Something about saving a planet or some such.” Quark flapped the paper in the air and then handed it roughly back to Rom.
“A pity,” the Nagus said, smiling. “He is known to be one of the best players. We will miss his skill.”
The Nagus shuffled out of the room. Quark didn’t even seem to notice that his leader had left. Bashir watched as word spread through the room that Riker was not coming. Several players were visibly relieved. Apparently Riker was a good games man.
Not that it surprised Bashir. He had met Riker twice and had found him to be the kind of man who belonged on the frontier. Rugged, handsome, competent, Riker had a way with the ladies, and an adventure-filled Starfleet career. Of course a man like that would be an expert at poker.
“We can’t be one player short,” Quark said to Rom.
“You could play,” Rom said.
“Idiot!” Quark grabbed Rom’s ear and shook him. “I’m the host. I can’t play.”
Bashir ran a hand down his tuxedo to make himself look presentable. Suddenly Quark was not the Ferengi owner of a decrepit bar. He was the ticket for Bashir’s entrance in the big game.
“Maybe I could—” Rom started.
“No!” Quark twisted Rom’s ear. Rom crumpled to his knees. “You will not play. Nog will not play. The Dabo girl will not play. Now be quiet and let me think!”
Of course, Bashir was rusty. He had been planning an extensive gambling trip in Risa on his vacation ever since Quark had turned him down. But he hadn’t really played much since he had come to the station.
Quark let go of Rom’s ear and paced. “We can’t just pull someone off the Promenade—”
“There’s no need to,” Bashir said. He moved in front of Quark, and Quark nearly bumped into him. “I would like to play.”
“You?!?” Quark looked at Rom and both Ferengi giggled, a sound that rivaled the Grand Nagus’s laugh. “You’re a doctor, not a gambler! You can’t even hold your Evarian beer!”
“But I can play poker.”
“’But I can play poker,’” Quark said, imitating Bashir’s inflections. “Anyone can play poker. My nephew can play poker. He just can’t play very well.”
“I’m sure I could beat your nephew,” Bashir said. “And I’m willing to wager I could beat most anyone in that room.”
“I’m sure you can . . . ” Quark said, “ . . . beat my nephew, that is.”
“With a stick!” Rom added.
Then they laughed again, doubling over and slapping their knees. Bashir backed up to stay out of their way. He waited until the laughing eased a bit.
“I am a highly ranked poker player,” he said.
“Highly ranked at losing!” Rom said. He cackled so hard that he started to cough. Quark patted him on the back and laughed with him.
“I have the entry fee,” Bashir said.
The laughter disappeared from Quark’s face as if it had never been there. Quark stood up and approached Bashir. Even though Quark only reached Bashir’s chest, Quark suddenly seemed taller and stronger. “You have a hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum? How did a Federation doctor get so rich?”
“It’s not an unheard of amount of money, Quark.”
“It is when it only pays for an hour’s worth of poker.”
“I plan to play for longer than an hour,” Bashir said.
“You didn’t answer me, Doctor. Where did you get that kind of money?”
“Do you always quiz your players on where they came about their entry fee?”
“Most of them don’t work for the Federation.”
“But you were willing to let Will Riker in.”
“Riker is a well-known poker player. It’s obvious where he got the money.”
Bashir crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was not about to tell Quark the truth: no one on the station knew of Bashir’s small inheritance, which he had hoarded since his school days. “I got my money in the same place as Commander Riker.”
Quark grinned. “And where’s that?”
“I won it,” Bashir said. “Playing poker.”
Quark jerked back and looked him right in the eye. Bashir did not blink. He would bluff. He was good at bluffing. Quark squinted, as if that made Bashir’s duplicity clear.
“I have the entry fee in my office,” Bashir said.
Quark’s eyes widened. Then he sighed. “Get it. You take Riker’s chair. But be back immediately. I won’t hold the game very long for you.”
“You won’t have to hold it at all,” Bashir said. “This will only take a moment.” He started to hurry out of Quark’s before he remembered his manners. “And, Quark. Thank you. This will be a great deal of fun.”
“Oh, yeah,” Quark said. “I can tell. It�
��s already a barrel of laughs.”
CHAPTER 12
JAKE CAUGHT HIS BREATH and leaned against an exposed metal wall in the Promenade. Nog tugged on his sleeve, but Jake shook his head. He needed a moment to think.
He had returned home after midnight the night before, dirty, his clothing covered with oils and stains he couldn’t identify. He and Nog had had a bad moment climbing out of the service tunnel when they thought one of Odo’s guards was going to catch them, but they had managed to elude him. When Jake had arrived at his quarters he had been willing to tell all to his father, but his father hadn’t been there.
His father was still working in Ops on the engineering problems and had left a message that Jake should contact him if he had any questions.
Jake had no questions. Except to wonder why his father was never there like other boys’ fathers were.
“You coming or not?” Nog asked.
“Yeah.” Jake’s stomach growled. He wished he had had more for breakfast than that glass of orange juice he had grabbed just before he left.
He opened his eyes. Two Klingon women walked past him, their skirts flying. A Hupyrian servant hurried after them. Two Ferengi walked by, talking excitedly. All of them seemed to ignore the faint odor of smoke still in the air.
“Tell me again what we’re doing, Nog,” Jake said.
“You’re following me,” Nog said.
He ran up the steps to the second level of the Promenade, his feet ringing on the metal. Jake followed. Nog pulled a side door that led into the upper level at Quark’s and both of them ducked inside.
From a hidden space behind the doorway Nog picked up a device that looked like an old-fashioned tricorder. Only it wasn’t. It had Ferengi heads imprinted on the back and multicolored buttons that beeped if Nog touched one wrong.
They went back out into the corridor and Nog stopped in front of the service access port they had crawled through the night before.
THE BIG GAME Page 7